


Idealism Sits In Prison

by Cristinuke



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Catharsis, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Not Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie) Compliant, Past Abuse, Past Torture, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Self-Doubt, Self-Esteem Issues, ambiguous timeline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:21:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22332556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cristinuke/pseuds/Cristinuke
Summary: The trigger words only worked because of their association with the manual initiation.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 14
Kudos: 96





	Idealism Sits In Prison

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [Kuja](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kuja/profile) for all the help in editing this little thing.
> 
> Tags of violence are for past events. This story deals with the memories/effects of it.

Bucky felt awful guilt because he knew. He’d been carrying around this awful secret that could easily destroy his life— everyone’s lives. They said he was ‘better’ now, because the trigger words were gone. But he knew better.

He knew the truth.

The trigger words were gone, but HYDRA never took any chances. They always made sure to have a failsafe.

Of _course_ there was a manual way of making the asset ready to comply. How else would the trigger words have worked? 

It just took longer, so usually they preferred the quick and easy way.

That didn’t stop some of them from doing it occasionally— every couple of years. Just to make sure they kept up maintenance. Wouldn’t want to accidentally find out a method stopped working at the last minute.

It was written down, he knew. Somewhere. At some point. Someone knew.

He just didn’t know why it hadn’t been in that damn little book. 

Maybe the instructions had been erased somewhere along the way?

Purged in fire, waterlogged in floods, torn apart in a blast. 

God knew the Avengers were very detailed in hunting down every last hidey-hole HYDRA could possibly lurk in.

But Bucky knew. He was never going to be safe. No matter what amazing technology Wakanda shared to help. 

No matter how _anyone_ tried to help.

Bucky knew.

But Steve didn’t.

And that was the problem, wasn’t it?

It wasn’t fair that Steve had no idea that all of the work he’d done could easily be for nothing if someone found out. The Winter Soldier could easily go on another murder spree if that was what someone wanted.

It definitely wasn’t what _Bucky_ wanted.

So he had to tell him. 

The thing was, Bucky knew he used to be brave. But there was no courage for this. There was no question that he had to tell Steve— Steve deserved it, and Bucky knew he was safe from Steve. 

He _knew_ it. 

Steve would never betray him, would never make him do anything Bucky didn’t want to do. 

He’d never make him the Asset again.

He could have when he knew the trigger words, and he didn’t. _Wouldn’t._

So having Steve know wasn’t the issue. 

At least, he was pretty sure it wasn’t the issue.

The issue was voicing and giving up that last small part of himself that he kept curled up so tightly inside. He’d have to lay out his last defense to Steve and force himself to be vulnerable one more time. 

Except, it wasn’t quite his last defense, was it?

He knew it was his greatest weakness.

He’d be most vulnerable if no one had any idea, and were surprised when it finally reared its ugly head. 

So he had to tell Steve.

But he wasn’t brave. 

Not enough for this.

So he did the next best thing and wrote it down.

‘INSTRUCTIONS FOR MANUAL INITIATION’

He bolded it at the top of the page and then listed the words. Next to each of them were detailed descriptions of how to carry it out. He made sure his handwriting was neat and legible, and not the messy scrawl that he had adapted from long before the war. 

The words. They each had a meaning. They always had a meaning. 

_Longing_

That was a pretty easy one. Start off with deprivation of food and water. It was hard to fight back when he was hungry as fuck, and getting splitting headaches from dehydration. His stomach would cramp viciously against nothing, and his lips would crack dry.

_Rusted_

Whips until he bled. The back sucked, of course it did. Calves and thighs were hell. But nothing was as bad as the soles of his feet. He never hated his enhanced healing as much as he did when they started in on his feet. Just because he healed quickly, didn’t make the pain any less severe. It just meant they could do more of it.

_Furnace_

He hated the ice, but the heat was worse. It just made him realize how much more he wanted water. He barely had anything left to sweat out by the time they let him move on. The cracks on his lips bled. 

_Daybreak_

It was always regret. He wanted water so badly, and now he would get it. It would fill his lungs, trickle out of his nose, blind his eyes. His ears would drown out, and his throat burn with the force of his coughing, when they eventually let him. 

_Seventeen_

First wave of electricity. He didn’t know the significance of 17 seconds on, 17 seconds off— he assumed some mathematical or science-related reason though he never found out— but it was never enough to recover. His muscles would scream at him as every single one contracted and tried to spasm in all directions at once.

_Benign_

Tied down. Blindfolded. Gagged. Ears muffled. Even his nose would be plugged. The only thing he would be aware of was his own harshly beating heart, pounding away inside of him as they stripped him of all his senses. 

_Nine_

The second wave of electricity. Even worse. He could barely breathe. Yet he would always welcome it after having been deprived of his senses for so long, even when he inevitably pissed himself. His muscles would be like fire, scorching every sinew and burning his blood.

_Homecoming_

This one was always the worst. Especially because it could vary, depending on the handler’s inclination, but the result would always be the same. Something would fuck him until he was on the verge of passing out. Sometimes it was a team of hungry agents. Sometimes they would just shove things inside him to see how much he could take. He wasn’t so sure he liked the invention of machines that could do it for them when the time came.

_One_

The last hour of electricity. He would wish he could die. He never knew why he didn’t. How could his heart not give out by then? He wasn’t always conscious, but the darkness wasn’t a true escape anyway. He always came back, hoping this time he wouldn’t. 

_Freight car_

His mind was completely blank by then. He would be so far removed from himself he wouldn’t bring forth a single thought to the empty casket that was his body. Still, miraculously, alive. He shouldn’t have been, but he always would be.

He would be ready to comply.

He listed off quick instructions for each word, and a brief description of how best to carry out each one. Anecdotes, where needed. The whole thing never took more than four or five days. It was a slow process, but accurate. 

Dependable. 

Replicable. 

Effective. 

Bucky stared at the paper when he finished. He knew anyone could read it, understand it, and easily carry it out, and Bucky would have no choice. He wouldn’t want to, of course he wouldn’t. But he knew the outcome. He’d lost enough fights to know the inevitable. 

It was time Steve knew this too. 

So he folded it up and gripped it tightly in his hand. It was still early in the morning, but he heard Steve in the kitchen, probably getting ready to go out on his run. 

It’d be so easy to wait a couple of minutes until Steve was out of the house. Bucky could leave the note on the counter for when Steve came back; Bucky could disappear, go to explore the city for the morning while Steve read it. 

But that was worse. 

And he couldn’t leave it to chance. Couldn’t leave that note by itself, unsupervised. Unprotected. 

Steve needed it handed to him personally.

Bucky walked out of his room, feeling like he was facing his executioner. 

He wished he was, sometimes.

But Steve wouldn’t. Would _never._ Not even if Bucky begged. 

So he settled for the next best thing and stepped into the kitchen. Steve was filling up his water bottle; his shoes were the only thing he still needed to put on before he left, so Bucky had caught him in time. 

“Hey!” Steve called out as soon as Bucky’s movement caught his attention. “You wanna go for a run with me?”

Any other day, Bucky might say yes. 

He might say no.

But he wanted to say yes.

He wanted to _run_ and _run_ and _run_ away.

“I need you to read something.” Bucky said instead. 

Steve looked up at Bucky, a faint crease growing between his eyes as he took a moment to take in Bucky’s mood. 

Turning off the water and setting the bottle aside he responded, “Yeah, what’s up?”

Bucky lifted the hand holding the note. 

God, he was so cowardly he couldn’t even step closer to Steve. They were an entire room apart, and he couldn’t get any closer. 

Instead, Steve did it for him, crossing the room without a comment, as if he’d meant to come near anyway. As if Bucky wasn’t standing awkwardly with his hand raised up like a lunatic. 

“You okay?” Steve asked as he got closer. Bucky just pushed the note into Steve’s hand as he reached for it. 

“I’ll be…” Bucky trailed off, not able to finish the sentence. He realized he couldn’t watch Steve read it.

He couldn’t see Steve’s reaction. 

He knew Steve would probably be horrified. That’d been pretty consistent between them. But just in case, Bucky couldn’t trust himself to see any other reaction so he about-faced and walked straight to the dining room. There was a single, thin wall between them now, and most importantly, a barrier between their faces. 

Bucky breathed out roughly and found himself gripping the back of one of the chairs. The wood creaked under his metal hand, and he forced himself to let go. He tried to ignore the rushing sound in his ears, but lost the battle when it gave way to tinnitus. 

At least that was something he could deal with instead of drowning in his anxiety. Remembering what his therapist had taught him, he covered his ears with his palms, making his fingers curl around the nape of his neck. He then began to tap gently at the base of his skull, focusing on the internal drum noise it made in his head. He first alternated which fingers would tap, and then tapped at the same time, changing it up after twenty seconds. Finally, he let his hands down, and the tinnitus had muted dramatically, as had his breathing. 

But of course, that was when he heard Steve’s footsteps come in the room.

“Bucky?” Steve’s voice was hesitant. Bucky took a big breath and turned around. 

Steve was standing in the doorway, a look of anguish on his face. He had his arms half up towards Bucky and he stammered out, “C-can I?”

Bucky nodded once, and immediately Steve flung himself towards him, wrapping his arms tightly around his neck and shoulders. 

Bucky found himself automatically reaching around to return the embrace, and then found that he couldn’t have let go even if he wanted to.

This was safety.

In Steve’s arms. 

Steve understood. Steve mourned, _grieved_ for Bucky in a way Bucky could never manage for himself. He didn’t know what he’d done to deserve it, only that now that it was within his reach, he was never going to let go.

They stood for a while, and it wasn’t until Steve leaned back enough to see Bucky’s face that he saw there were tear tracks on his cheeks. 

He hadn’t realized he was crying until Steve reached up to wipe them away. 

“I’m so sorry.” Steve whispered into their shared space. “I know it’s not enough—it’ll never be enough.” 

Bucky cracked a joyless smile. “It’s not your—”

“I know.” Steve interrupted. They’d played this duet together so many times before, it was second nature. Muscle memory from how often they practiced and memorized to the core. 

They still rehearsed it every so often to make sure they were still in tune.

They always were.

Bucky cast his gaze down, seeing the paper crumpled in Steve’s hand. He’d done it. Given Steve yet another weapon to use against him. 

He stamped down on the panic trying to rise up from the pit of his stomach. It was routine by now to smother his reactions, however violently. 

Years of enforced practice couldn’t erase that, at least. 

He wanted to ask Steve what he was going to do with it, but he couldn’t bring himself to speak.

Luckily, Steve always knew just how to assuage Bucky without having to ask.

“I’m cold. Let’s make a fire and warm up.” Steve said it casually, as if Bucky hadn’t just disrupted his entire morning. As if they didn’t already have an excellent heater in their apartment—always set so they’d never feel a chill at home. As if Bucky hadn’t just handed him a live grenade to play with.

“Okay.” Bucky replied easily. He had no idea what Steve was planning, but he could never deny Steve anything. He followed where Steve led— their fingers entwined— to their living room where they had a little fireplace set inside a stone hearth. It was one of the reasons they had chosen this apartment complex, because they had grown up with a chimney and it wasn’t easy to find in most New York places nowadays. 

Steve let go of Bucky to gently push him down into the armchair closest to the fireplace and gestured him to wait. Bucky was obedient to a fault sometimes, but they’d mostly gotten over it when they realized it didn’t really affect their lives any differently than before. And besides, Bucky was always happy to go along with Steve’s ideas— however crazy they were sometimes _._

Now he just watched curiously as Steve set about starting a fire. It quickly caught on once he’d thrown kindle on top of the log they usually stored in there, and soon the blaze was pleasantly warming Bucky’s arm and thigh. 

Steve came to sit at Bucky’s feet, settling himself between his thighs without a care. Bucky instinctually started running his fingers through Steve’s hair, enjoying the way Steve moaned happily and tipped his head back.

“What are we doing here?” Bucky asked warily, after some time. It wasn’t that he didn’t mind the downtime, but he was still tightly wound— the tension that filled him since waking up that morning had not dissipated— the tendrils of a nightmare still gripped him with guilt and fear. He’d opened a vulnerable part of himself up, and he was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“I’m waiting for you.” Steve said simply, as if the answer was clear. 

Bucky let a beat pass before hesitantly asking, “Waiting for me to do what?”

Steve tipped his head back to look at Bucky. “To throw the list in.”

A startled bark of a laugh escaped him. “That’s not going to fix the problem, Steve.” Bucky pointed out slowly. 

He knew the instructions. And now, so did Steve. It didn’t matter what they did with the note, someone out there could always write a new one. 

“Are you planning on writing that list for anyone else?”

Bucky couldn’t help the slight recoil at the thought. “No.” He said it confidently.

“Then no one is ever going to know it. Or use it.” Steve let his head lean against Bucky’s knee, comfortable and completely at ease. 

Bucky’s next breath felt a little too ragged. “You don’t know that. Someone out there might remember it, might find it—”

“Maybe.” Steve interrupted, voice perfectly even. “But I don’t think so. I think anyone that would have known those instructions is dead. I don’t think there are any records left. And if anyone tries, they’re going to have a hell of a hard time following through with it, don’t you think?”

Bucky slipped his hands away to grip onto the arm rests instead, breathing hard and trying to think. “You can’t _know_ that.” He repeated. 

But his mind was racing ahead of him. 

He was the safest he’d ever been; in a secure location, with a network of friends who would not only protect him, but actively search for him if he ever disappeared— they’d done it before, they’d do it again. 

And he had Steve. 

_And himself,_ he thought, surprising himself. He was a weapon with his own mind and for anyone to carry out any of these instructions, they’d have to have him in the first place; Bucky would be his own last resort. 

But the fear still nagged at him. “Maybe. But it’s always a risk, right? I can’t know if someone already knows. Or if they’ll use it. I mean, now you know—” the words slipped out before he could stop them. 

Steve pushed himself up and turned around, settling on his knees and laying his hands gently on the tops of Bucky’s thighs. 

“Bucky.” His voice was calm, but serious. “Tell me right now. Do you think I would ever, for even one second, ever even _consider_ following any of the instructions you just wrote out for me?”

Bucky felt his cheeks flush hard. “No…” His voice was small and he felt the guilt from before amplified as he realized that there had been _some_ fear in him for that exact scenario. Logically, he knew Steve would never use it against him, would never even _dream_ of using it against him. But some dark and ugly part of him had its claws sunk into the idea that if anyone _could_ , anyone _would_. 

“Bucky.” Steve pushed, gently.

“ _No_.” Bucky reiterated, more confidently. “No, I don’t. I’m just…” He dropped his chin.

_Scared_.

He was always scared. Scared that this perfect bubble would one day burst. That he didn’t deserve this beautiful reprieve. That someone would take Steve away from him.

Or that someone would take _him_ away.

He didn’t _want_ to go away. He wanted to stay right here. 

Steve squeezed his thighs gently, making Bucky’s legs jerk from the tickle of it. It served its purpose though, and Bucky’s gaze snapped back at Steve’s face, attention back on him. 

“I know. I _know_.” Steve spoke quietly. “It’s the hardest fucking thing in the world, and it’s even harder for you of all people, but you have to _trust_. And you have to let go.”

Bucky let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding.

“You’re hurting, Bucky. Right now, this is hurting you, and it’s only going to keep hurting you if you let it. Don’t let it. Please.”

Steve let his hands slide away as he sat back on his heels, and then grabbed the note from where he’d set it next to him on the floor. He didn’t look at it as he placed it, delicately, on Bucky’s thighs, right where his hands had been. 

“I might be privileged to carry some of this burden for you, but you are the only one who decides what to do with it.” Steve settled, ready to wait however long Bucky needed.

A wry smile tugged at Bucky’s lips. “You sound like a therapist.”

Steve cracked a genuine smile at that. “Guess they have some good points now and again.”

“So what, I just throw this in the fire and I’m cured?” He couldn’t help the sarcastic tone that bled through— a last defense that he knew Steve would navigate through. Bucky grabbed the note, crumpling it further in his fist. It felt cold. Sharp. _Dangerous_. 

Sure enough, Steve’s reply was easy and unhurried. “No. You do whatever you need to do, and it’ll help you however much you want it to help you.”

Bucky huffed a breath. “Vague. Nice. Sounds like a wishing well.”

Steve shrugged with one shoulder. “Sure, why not?”

Steve had always been infuriating, Bucky thought. But sometimes he was right. 

And really, Bucky didn’t have anything to lose.

Did he? 

Well, he _did_. He had everything to lose. 

But he’d lose it all anyway if he stayed _scared._

He stood up suddenly, not wanting to _think_ anymore. Steve scooted out of the way and Bucky’s feet blindly took him the three steps to the hearth. He watched the flames lick over the log, the quiet crackling sounds as comforting as the warmth it radiated.

He couldn’t hear the crinkle of the note scrunched up in his hand, but the muscles in his wrist were going to be sore later from how hard he was gripping it. He forced himself to relax, willing his fingers to pry themselves open. It took long minutes, his body hard and wired as he concentrated.

The second his fingers relented, Bucky tossed the note into the flames, desperate, fast, as if afraid he’d change his mind at the last second.

He didn’t.

The bunched-up note settled on top of the log and immediately caught fire; the edges burned bright with a new source to consume. The ember line grew wider and wider, each side encroaching on new territory as the rest curled black and flaked away, adding to the ash already settled. 

It was beautiful.

It was horrifying.

Bucky couldn’t tear his eyes away.

He watched until the paper was beyond recognizable. The momentary bright glow simmered back down, now that there was nothing to be excited about. 

Bucky realized he was shaking. 

And gasping.

He couldn’t catch his breath all of a sudden. The fire must have stolen his oxygen; why else would he be feeling like this?

Arms enveloped him from behind, pulling him back into a warm chest and holding him there. A breath in his ear was telling him he was okay. He was fine, he did good. He _did_ it. He was going to be okay. 

“You did it.” Steve repeated, letting his whisper dance along Bucky’s neck.

A breath shuddered out of him, and Bucky felt his hammering heart trying to break free. 

“Breathe, Bucky. It’s okay. Breathe.”

Bucky held in the next breath. Then the next. And the next.

Steve kept murmuring low things to him as his hand rubbed Bucky’s chest.

It felt good. 

Calming. 

He didn’t know how long he needed before he was finally breathing normally again. His chest no longer felt like it was bursting at the seams, but tamed under Steve’s hand. 

“I’m tired.” Bucky gritted out eventually. He was exhausted, his muscles aching, and his head stuffed full of cotton. 

Steve hummed. “Okay. C’mere.” He pulled Bucky gently until they reached the couch, and then Steve sat down, pulling Bucky with him. 

He let Steve arrange them, not caring and not aware enough to have an opinion, and soon Bucky was lying completely on top of Steve, with Steve’s arms wrapped around his back, keeping him in place. It was comfortable, and when Bucky turned his face outwards, he had an uninterrupted view of the fire. It was relaxing, and Bucky felt himself go limp.

“More than what you expected, huh?” Steve spoke quietly into the shared silence. The fingers of one of his hands made lazy circles on Bucky’s lower back— Steve had slipped his hand just under the hem of Bucky’s shirt. 

Bucky made a noise of agreement. 

Another silence stretched on.

“You were going to go running.” Bucky pointed out at last, his guilt rearing its ugly head again. He hadn’t meant to disrupt their entire morning routine. 

Steve just shushed him. “We’re going to stay in today.”

Bucky couldn’t have moved even if he’d wanted to. And he didn’t want to. 

“Mmkay.” He slurred out. He didn’t think he’d fall asleep, but he was definitely settling into a twilight mood. Nothing really felt real, and his thoughts melted from one into another without direction. 

Steve’s breathing was steady under him. They watched the fire burn. 

Bucky couldn’t even see the remnants of the notes in the hearth. He stated, “You won’t.” 

Steve’s fingers didn’t stop. “I won’t.”

Bucky breathed evenly. They watched the fire burn. 

“I’ll be okay.”

Steve slipped his other hand under the shirt to trace more lines into Bucky’s skin. 

“You’ll be okay.”

They watched the fire burn.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think!


End file.
